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ON NETS 



EGAN 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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Shelfi-A. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/songssonnetsotheOOegan 



>f SONGS AND SONNETS 
AND OTHER POEMS BY 
MAURICE FRANCIS'EGAN 




//^/y ^ 



A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO ^ ^ MDCCCXCII 



^^ .V 



1^ 






Copyright, 

By a. C. McClurg and Co. 

A. D. 1892. 



CONTENTS 



SONGS AND HYMNS. 

Page. 

The Old Violin, - - - - 9 

Like a Lilac, - - - - - 10 

-» Among the Reeds, - - - - 12 

A Duet in Winter, - - - - 13 

*>0- Many in One, ----- 15 

From the Grave, - - - - - 17 

Faded Leaves, ----- 18 

The Shamrock, - - - - - 19 

To-Day, ....-- 21 

Of Life, - - - - - - 22 

O Heart of Exile, - - - - 23 

Apple Blossoms, - - - - - 25 

Drifting, ----- 26 

''Gold and Green," - - - - 29 

Beneath a Balcony, - - - - 30 

Sleeping Song, - - - - - 32 

I Cyclops to Galatea, - - - - 35 

Frankness, - - - - - - 39 

After the Summer, - - - - 42 

He Made Us Free, - - - - 45 

At Easter Time, - - - - 48 



CONTENTS, 

NARRATIVE POEMS. 



The Friar's Ruby, 

Dona Inez, - - - 

Jean Renaud, 

The Bard's Story, - 

A Swedish Legend, 

A Ballad of Iscander-Beg, 



SONNETS. 

Perpetual Youth, - - - - 85 

Of One We Love or Hate, - - - 87 

• Theocritus, ----- 88 
» Maurice de Guerin, - - - - 90 

Jessica, ------ 91 

A Night in June, - - - - - 92 

The Joy-Bringer, - - - - 97 

Consolation, - _ = - - 100 

Raphael, ----- 102 

« Fra Angelico, ----- 104 

Columbus the World-Giver, - - 106 

Cervantes, ------ 108 

Frederic Ozanam, - - - - 110 

* At the End of Autumn, - - - - 111 
' True Love, _---.- 113 

The Chrysalis of a Bookworm, - - 114 

^ The After Thought, - - . 116 

By Right Divine, - _ . - H8 

On Meadows Green, . - - - 120 

Illusion, ----- - 121 



Page. 


53 


62 


65 


67 


73 


75 



CONTENTS, 

Page. 

November, - - - - - 123 

Legends of the Flowers, _ _ > 124 

Prelude: Of Flowers. 

I. The Child. 
IF. Margfaret. 

III. A Romaunt of the Rose. 

The Heart, - - - - - 129 

Order, - - - - - - 131 

Saint Teresa to our Lord - - - 133 

Troubled Souls, = - - - - 13") 

Peace. - - - - - - ]o7 

A Question, - - - - - 138 

The Answer, - - - - - 140 

We Conquer God, - - - - - 142 

After Lent, - - - - - 144 

"Resurrexit Sicut Dixit," _ _ _ 146 

The Lesson of the Season, - - - 148 

Golden Noon, . - - . . 150 

To Richard Watson Gilder, - - 152 

OTHER POEMS. 

The Annunciation, - - - - 157 

The String of the Rosary. . . . 161 

The Anxious Lover. - - - - 165 

Between the Lights, . - _ - 170 

To a Poet in Exile, - - - - 174 

The Country Priest's Week, - - - 175 



\ 



SONGS AND HYMNS 



SONGS AND HYMNS. 



THE OLD VIOLIN, 




HOUGH tuneless, stringless, it lies 

there in dust, 

Like some great thought on a forgotten 

page; 

The soul of music cannot fade or rust — 

The voice within it stronger grows with 

age; 

Its strings and bow are only trifling things — 
A master-touch ! — its sweet soul wakes and 

sings. 



10 MOUQS diXXd l[;ymtx5< 



ZIX£ A LILAC. 



IKE a lilac in the spring 
Is my love, my lady-love; 
Purple-white, the lilacs fling 

Scented blossoms from above: 
So my love, my lady-love, 

Throws soft glances on my heart; 
Ah, my dainty lady-love, 

Every glance is Cupid's dart. 

Like a pansy in the spring 
Is my love, my lady-love; 

For her velvet eyes oft bring 

Golden fancies from above: 

Ah, my heart is pansy-bound 

By those eyes so tender-true; 



Itfee a ^ttac. 11 

Balmy heartsease have I found, 
Dainty lady-love, in you. 

Like the changeful month of spring 

Is my love, my lady-love; 
Sunshine comes and glad birds sing, 

Then a rain-cloud floats above: 
So your moods change with the wind, 

Like the colors of the dove. 
All the sweeter, to my mind; 

For the changes, lady-love. 



12 ^01X05 KntX "^^srans, 




AMONG THE REEDS, 

MONG the reeds, beside a singing 
fountain 



Silenus sat, when life was young and gay, 
And piped until the echoes from the mountain 
Awoke the birds as if at break of day. 

The fount is dry, and no more old Silenus 

Makes singing sweet re-echo on the shore. 
Great Pan is dead ; the exiled fauns have 
seen us 
Walk with bowed heads, where blithe 
they danced before. 



^ gxtet in WixnUx. 13 




A DUET IN WINTER, 

OME, close your eyes and let us dream 
together 
That June-time's glow is here; 
See not the coming of the snow's first feather, 
Hear not the wind's voice drear. 

Oh, let's float back to where the roses tremble, 

And breezes lift your hair; 
And these pink asters, — do they not resemble 

The climbing roses there? 

You will not dream ? How, then, can you 
remember 

The month that bore our love. 
Or taste its sweetness in this dark December, 

All gloom the mistress of? 



14 ^0ix0s and ^rrmns* I 

_ _ j 

The asters faint are but the ghosts of roses 

(Hold, see them not, I meant), 

And no fern-frond in all the land uncloses; j 

The summer's gold is spent. ' 

How can we keep the past and drink its j 

sweetness, j 

How walk in love's dear ways, 

i 
If in this winter-cold and incompleteness 

We dream not of June days? ^ 

Love is, you say, no child of change and \ 

season, — 

He is our heart's desire; i 

Dreams will not keep him: take a woman's | 

reason, 

And make a warmer fire. I 



pcarcaj i^^ ®^^* 15 




MAJVY IN ONE, 

O the red and the white and the blue, 
here's a health! 
To the old and the young and the man 
that's to be, 
Not fame will I wish them or plenty of wealth, 
Nor peace without honor, nor quiet that's 
not free 
To the North, to the South, to the East, to 
the West, 
To the blue and the gray, — they're all one 
color now. 
To the poor men that work and the rich men 
that rest; 
To the men of the pen and the men of the 
plow! 



16 <:S0ix0s anxX l^ijmtxs. 

Here's a health to them all, from wherever 
they come! 
May they learn one short lesson by head 
and by heart, — 
That the figures are weak till they make up a 
sum, — 
That the whole is a whole and a part is 
a part, — 
The red and the white and the blue are but 
One, 
And the flags of all nations were dipped 
in the sea 
When their children set face to the westering 
sun, — 
No Teuton, no Celt, — all Americans we. 



"gxom Uxz ^XKVt. 17 




FROM THE GRAVE. 

j EEP not for me, O tender heart! 

Thou know'st my wish that all thy part 



In life should be a happy way 
As sunlit as a summer day. 

Weep not for me! 

In life thy tears were bitter drops, 
In death thy woe's a hand that stops 
The current of Eternity, 
And smites thy echoed grief to me, 
O tender heart! 

No tears, O love! be happy now! 
*'A little while," and know shalt thou 
What 't is to lie and wait in earth 
The resurrection and the birth. 

Weep not for me! 



18 MouQB an^ ll^gmrcs. 




FADED LEAVES, 

E heard a maiden singing in a wood, 
He saw the wild vines kiss her as she 
stood, 
With face upturned to note their wavy grace. 

There was no note of sadness in her song, 
And yet his thoughts were saddened, as along 
The woodland path she went, 'mid tender 
leaves. 

"To-day's a dream, to-morrow's real,'* he said; 
^^For life's a dream, the wakened ones are dead; 
She sings a lullaby for all her race." 

.And death is real, for life is but to-day; 
To-morrow's death, to-day will pass away, 
And hold, for green and sunlit, faded leaves. 



TM MU^mxoc^. 19 



c^ 



1 




TH^ SHAMROCK. 

HEN April rains make flowers bloom 
And Johnny-jump-ups come to light, 
And clouds of color and perfume 

Float from the orchards pink and white, 
I see my shamrock in the rain, 

An emerald spray with raindrops set, 
Like jewels on Spring's coronet, 

So fair, and yet it breathes of pain. 

The shamrock on an older shore 

Sprang from a rich and sacred soil 

Where saint and hero lived of yore, 

And where their sons in sorrow toil; 

And here, transplanted, it to me 

Seems weeping for the soil it left 



20 ^0tX0s auxl "^vfrauB. 

The diamonds that all others see 

Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. 

When April rain makes flowers grow, 

And sparkles on their tiny buds 
That in June nights will over-blow 

And fill the world with scented floods, 
The lonely shamrock in our land — 

So fine among the clover leaves — 
For the old springtimes often grieves — 

I feel its tears upon my hand. 



g0^gatj. 21 



m 



TO-DAY, 

0-DAY is bright v/ith golden gleams of 
spring, 

To-day is fair, and all our sweet hopes sing; 
But night comes down, and then our day is 
done. 

It is not always bright, nor always spring, 
And sunny seasons are the ones that bring 
Most sudden showers ; and the light is gone! 

Live in the sunlight, in the fair to-day! 
To-morrow keeps to-morrow, and the way 
May, in a moment, lose the light of sun! 



23 M>onQ^ autl It^mus* 




OF LIFE. 

E, fixing eyes of hope upon the sun, 
And never steering while the swift 
waves run, 
Him turning as they list, can reach no goal. 

For all our life is made of little things, 
Our chain of life is forged of little rings, 
And little words and acts uplift the soul. 

'T is good to look aloft with ardent eyes. 
And work as well ; he, doing these, is wise ; 
But one without the other gains no goal. 



© ^Z^Xt 0f ^Xlz. 23 




O HEART OF EXILE, 

FRANgOIS COPPEE. 

HEART of exile, dream thou of the day 
When the fair future all thy nature 
stirred, 
And in thy hand her white hand nestling lay, 
Like a tired bird! 

Ah, then, how quickly all th}^ soul within 
Grew warm and trembled in that tender hour, 
How silently thou drank'st the moments in, 
Like a faint flower. 

Again dark clouds of sorrow fill thy sky. 
For she, afar, can give no look or word — 
Thy tender thoughts away all drooping fly, 
Like a tired bird. 



24 ^0tx0s aixd "^vfvxns. 

Already o'er thy soul comes winged distrust, 
And grief is born anew in love's late bower, 
Thou knowest love will fall and fade in dust, 
Like a faint flower. 



^ppXz ^X0550ms. 25 



APPLE BLOSSOMS, 




HE tender branches sway and swing, 
Whispering all that the robins sing 
Of hope and love, and lightly fling 

Showers of apple blossoms. 

A head of black and a head of gold, 
Her little hands in his firm hold, 
Eyes that speak more than words have told 
Under the apple blossoms. 

Ever on earth again shall they 
Find in springtime so fair aday ? 
Is it true that love can pass away 

With spring and apple blossoms ? 



26 MouQS und ^vixauB. 



DRIFTING, 




T harvest, when the sun shone o'er the 
wheat, 

Standing in shocks in the quiet, pleasant 
fields, 
We, hand in hand, walked through the noon- 
day heat. 
Along the land to where the pond lay 

still, 
*Neath water-lilies floating at their will. 

And while we walked and spoke of other days, 
At harvest, too, before my love and I 

Had been made one to walk through this 
world's ways 
As man and wife, until the end shall be. 
When life shall live itself eternally 



^xiftiUQ. 27 



Her sister, speaking to her, softly said: 

" How far," she asked, " my dear one, have 
you solved 
Life's problem ? Well, I mind me ere were wed 
Your love and you, you often thought it 

o'er, 
Afraid of darkness on the unseen shore." 

And, as we skirted the sweet, verdant shores, 
And drifted near the lilies, spoke no v/ord 
My thoughtful wife, and the unmoved oars 
Caught in the branches of the hanging 

trees 
Came from the land the murmuring hum 
of bees. 

"Life is no problem," said my wife, at last ; 
"'Tis our own blindness makes us think 
it one; 



28 MOUQS atx^ ^xjiutxs. 

For we can read the future by the past. 

Has God not kept us ? We are anchored 

here, 
Floating, yet anchored — lilies in a mere.*' 



'' ^oXtl atxil (^xzcnJ' 29 



'' GOLD AND GREEN. '* 




OLD and green and blue and white, 
Daisies, buttercups and sky, 
Grass, and clouds, and birds unite 
In a chorus of delight, 

For the tender spring is nigh, 
Soon will winds no longer sigh. 

March and April pass away. 

And the dainty-fingered rain 

Plays sweet symphonies all day, 

Welcoming the lovely May; 

Soon will chickweed fill the lane, 
And poppies sprout amid the grain. 



30 MouQB an^ ^^mtxs. 



BENEATH A BALCONY, 

(after a PERSIAN SONG.) 

ARCISSUS-FLOWERS, drunk with 
dews of night, 
Her eyelids droop to veil a scornful light, 

And on her fair brow curl the black 

love locks, 
Twin serpents on the pale orb of the 
moon. 

O breath of roses, rose of red and white, 

voice of bulbul in the wooded height, 

I care not if her languid smile but mocks, 
A smile from her is Allah's greatest boon. 

1 only dream ! — her veil close hides her face. 
The jealous curtain of a holy place; 



gjetxeatlx a glaXc^n^, 31 

A rose's hundred leaves on heart of gold 
Are not so careful of the gem they hold. 

If she should smile and wear a veil of lace, 
Another man might look, — such looks deface 
And make a treasure common; sweet the 

fold 
That wraps her from me — and the vile 
and bold! 



32 MOUQB diUd "^VfVXUB, 



SLEEPING SONG, 




EN months had passed since rosy 
Herakles 

Had opened wondering eyes unto the sun, 
When, in the sloping light of summer's eve, 
Alcmena, mother of the little twins. 
The hero and his brother fair to see. 
Bared her soft breasts, as all our mothers did, 
In tender love, and gave her boys their food; 
And having laved them in the mellow stream, 
She laid them down within Amphytrion's 

shield — 
A half sphere of bright brass by bold blows 

won 
From slaughtered Pterilaus — then, with 

hands. 



MzZpXUQ MOUQ. 33 

Like blush-rose petals, on the head of each, 
In tones like cithern-echoes, thus she sang: 

^^ Sleep, my boys, in gentle dewy sleep, 
Until the dawn in glowing beauty peep 
To call the hours from out the night's dark 
deep 

Into the light. 

Sleep, for the day has sunk in the red west; 
Sleep, 'neath the mother-heart that loves you 

best; 
Sleep, sleep, and peaceful, peaceful be your 

rest 

Till dark is light. 
Anemones and roses drop their leaves 
In silent night, but still the ocean heaves; 
And so my heart fresh waves of love receives 

Through all the night. 
My other self in two, my heart in two. 



34 MouQS Kud '^vfmns. 

Sleep happy, and wake joyous. Oh, for you 
I pray the gods to give me all I sue 

Through day and night ! " 
And as sea-nymphs soft toss a favored boat, 
She rocked the buckler, singing as it moved. 



C^2jcX0p5 to 05alat^a» 35 




CYCLOPS TO GALATEA, 

OFTER than lambs and whiter than 
the curds, 



Galatea, swan-nymph of the sea! 
Vain is my longing, worthless are my words; 

Why do you come in night's sweet 
dreams to me, 
And when I wake, swift leave me, as in fear 
The lambkin hastens when a wolf is near? 

Why did my mother on a dark-bright day 

Bring you for hyacinths a-near my cave ? 
I was the guide, and through the tangled way 

1 thoughtless led you; I am now your 

slave. 



36 MouQS ^nd lljjmtxs. 

Peace left my soul when you knocked at my 

heart — 
Come, Galatea, never to depart! 

Though I am dark and homely to the sight — 

A Cyclops I, and stronger there are 

few — 

Of you I dream through all the quick-paced 

night. 

And in the morn ten fawns I feed for you. 

And four young bears : O rise from grots 

below, 
Soft love and peace with me for ever know! 

Last night I dreamed that I, a monster gilled, 
Swam in the sea and saw you singing 
there: 

I gave you lilies and your grotto filled 

With the sweet odors of all flowers rare; 



^vicXops to (Salatjea* 37 

I gave you apples, as I kissed your hand, 
And reddest poppies from my richest land. 

Oh, brave the restless billows of your world: 
They toss and tremble; see my cypress- 
grove, 
And bending laurels, and the tendrils curled 
Of honeyed grapes, and a fresh treasure- 
trove 
In vine-crowned ^tna, of pure-running rills! 
O Galatea, kill the scorn that kills! 

Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, 

O Galatea, listen to my prayer: 
Come, come to land, and hear the song of 
birds; 
Rise, rise, from ocean-depths, as lily-fair 
As you are in my dreams! Come, then, O 

Sleep, 
For you alone can bring her from the deep. 



38 MouQs an^ "^vjvxns. 

And Galatea, in her cool, green waves, 

Plaits her long hair with purple flower- 
bells, 
And laughs and sings, while black-browed 
Cyclops raves 
And to the wind his love-lorn story tells: 
For well she knows that Cyclops will ere long 
Forget, as poets do, his pain in song. 




INCONSTANT? And why not, O fair 
Helene? 

You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen, 
Blue as the violets in that season when 

The fields and hills are tinged with faint- 
est green; 
But you have not fair Marie's tender voice, 
Or Constance's smile, in which all hearts 
rejoice. _ 

Inconstant? Why ? I love the good in all, 
The good in one, and like the roving bee, 

(Are you ^as bleii^ fair lady, will you call 

My ^^ roving bee" a threadbare simile ?) 
I go from flower to fruit, and I love each, 
The faint-tinged rose-bud and the carmine 
peach. 



40 M>onQS und "^vfrtins. 

I love you for your eyes, O fair Helene, 

Your blue, blue eyes, so deep and limpid- 
clear, 
In whose deep depths are drowned many 
men. 
And for their deaths have you not shed a 
tear! 
And yet I love dear Rosalind's shy grace. 
And — can I help it ? — little Celia's face. 

I love the good in all, the good in one; 

Too frank am I? Can't help it! 'tis my 
way. 
If you'll be Clytie, I will be the sun. 

And you can follow me about all day, 
And yet I'll smile on all, and that will be 
Love universal, not inconstancy. 

Conceited ? How you wrong me, fair Helene; 
I'm not Apollo, and I know that well. 



i^ratxUtxjess* 41 






But you're not Clytie; if you were, why then 
I'd follow you. Good gracious! who 
could tell 
The girl would get so mad! A temper, true! 
ril never trust in meekest eyes of blue! 



42 MouQS ^nd ^igmws. 



AFTER THE SUMMER. 

*' Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne."— Othello. 




E walks in vain by yonder garden-gate, 
Where hollyhocks and tall carnations 
rise, 
Sweet marjoram, and blooms that linger late, 
And all the scented herbs that house- 
wives prize. 

A late rose throws soft kisses to the breeze, 
On petals sunrise-hued, like his love's 
cheeks; 
He hears a child's voice in the apple-trees; 
He starts! Ah, no; it is not she that 
speaks. 



^fUx tlxe M>nvxrazx. 43 

Gone! Lost! Her voice must ever be afar — 
Those tones that made his fond heart fer- 
vent bound; 
'T was not a voice as other voices are, 

For blithesome hope and love were in the 
sound. 

She was a damsel, dainty, fair, and fine; 

A princess in the city's latest style; 
And " darts " and '' hearts " were not much in 
her line; 

A little nonsense was: so, many a mile 

Stretches between the lonely heart that's 
left. 
With fading hedges, and the maiden fair, 
One heart is wild with pain, of joy bereft. 

The other's gay, and bright, and free 
from care. 



44 MouQS mxii futures* 

A summer season and a wounded heart — 

A young man's heart that suff' ring makes 
its moan — 
Alas! that reason and true love should part; 
*^ Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted 
throne." 

And Cupid sneered, for Cupid's young no 
more, 

And in my face he puffed his cigarette; 
"Drop sentiment, — it's such an awful bore; 

She has forgotten, he will soon forget! " 



^e HCaxXe Wis %txzc. 45 



c^^ <^ 



HE MADE US FREE. 



S flame streams upward, so my longing 
thought 

Flies up with Thee 
Thou God and Saviour, who hast truly- 
wrought 
Life out of death, and to us, loving, brought 
A fresh, new world; and in Thy sweet chains 
caught, 

And made us free! 

As hyacinths make way from out the dark, 

My soul awakes. 
At thought of Thee, like sap beneath the bark; 
As little violets in field and park 
Rise to the trilling thrush and meadow-lark. 

New hope it takes. 



46 Mongs au^ "^vfmns. 

As thou goest upward through the nameless 
space 

We call the sky, 
Like jonquil perfume softly falls Thy grace; 
It seems to touch and brighten every place, 
Fresh flowers crown our wan and weary race, 

O Thou on high! 

Hadst Thou not risen, there would be no joy 

Upon earth's sod; 
Life would be still with us a wound or toy, 
A cloud without the sun, — O Babe, O Boy, 
O Man of Mother pure, with no alloy, 

O risen God! 

Thou, God and King, didst *^ mingle in the 
game," * 

(Cease, all fears; cease!) 
For love of us; — not to give Virgil's fame 



* Tennyson. 



pje |>Xa^je Wis "gxzz. 47 






Or Croesus' wealth, not to make well the lame, 
Or save the sinner from deserved shame, 
But for sweet Peace! 

For peace, for joy; — not that the slave might 
lie 

In luxury. 
Not that all woe from us should always fly, 
Or golden crops with Syrian roses f vie 
In every field; but in Thy peace to die 

And rise, — be free! 

t Virgil. 



48 MouQS Kud l^ijmtxs. 




AT EASTER TIME, 

HE sunset, like a flaming sword, 

Between our sight and Paradise, 
Offers its red fire to our eyes — 
A symbol of earth's Lord. 

The crocus shows above the ground 
Its glowing lamp of yellow flame, 
It seems a letter of the Name 

Which choirs of angels sound. 

An altar all this fair earth is, 

The Christian mind the priest. 
The greatest thinker or the least 

Is acolyte of His. 



For nature gives us what we bring, 

Not more, nor any less; 

The meaning of her varied dress 
Must in our minds first spring. 

Thus Easter gilds the opening year, 
Because Christ is our joy; 
The sunset brave, the crocus coy, 

Reflect Him bright and clear. 

Nature's a sphinx to those who know 

Not Resurrection time! 

We read her w^ell; in every clime 
Faith makes her meaning glow. 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



NARRATIVE POEMS. 



THE FRIARS RUBY, 




HE sea and the sky are the servants of God^ 
And the earth is his footstool^ too; 
Dark deeds may be done at a despofs ?iod, 
Gods servants will brijtg them to view. 

He has hid his crime in the deep^ deep sea: 

Who has seen its^stain on land? 
But the sky knows all, and his hopes shall be 

As false as words in the sand! 

When Fra Gonsales in St. Francis' robe 
Came to the peons in fair Mexico, 
"Great Doctor" called they him; their 
every woe 

53 



54 ^at^ratttrje "^ozvxb. 

He found and cured with balsam and with 
probe. 

And so they said: *^A Spaniard can be 
good "— 
At first amazed. — "This Christian does 

not smite 
And goad us as the soldiers, nor does spite 
Or malice gleam beneath his blessed hood." 

The peaceful Friar wrought for many a day 
Among the peons by the restless sea — 
The chopping Gulf— that in the land 
might be 

An altar to the Truth, the Light, the Way. 

His bronze-hued children worked Gonsales' 
will, 
And other friars came, and soldiers, few — • 



Sent by the King the Friar's will to do — 
Came to a place where evil tongues were still. 

And with them Castro Mendez — *^ Cruel Eye " 
The peons called him — wily captain he 
Of Andalusian Guards: the charity 

Of Fra Gonsales saw no danger nigh. 

Castro loved gold. " The pious monk's a fool! 
If he were not," he said, *' Fd force these 

slaves 
To be my slaves; what though Spain's 
standard waves, 
If men are but the toys of this priest's rule! " 

Storm came on storm borne on the northern 
wind, 
And boats went down in darkness of the 
night. 



56 ^^XXKtiVZ ^0jettX5» 

" Oh! if to sea I could but cast a light! " 
Oft sighed the Friar, for he loved his kind. 

And in the season of these stormy blasts 

Gonsales' church was finished; high it 

rose 
The sea-wind facing — and the great God 
knows 
How, poem-like, it had grown in tears and 
fasts! 

While friars fasted, Castro cursed his fate, 
" O, for Pizarro's power to balk the 

priests — 
O, for a day of lavish gold and feasts 

Luxurious and gay. — The priest wakes late!" 

He heard the Friar calling on the name 
St. Antony, and saw him as he prayed. 



Just then a peon entered and soft laid 
A glowing ruby down, a rose of flame. 

^* ' T is yours, O Father! It came from the 
mine 
Called Wondrous, in the gorge by Inca's 
plain. 
For which the hated soldiers sought in vain. 
Take it, my Father; keep it, it is thine! " 

Don Castro heard; beneath his knitted brow 
Shot out a serpent-flame of evil light, 
And with desire his lips and cheeks grew 
white. 
^*Go, gold," he said, *^ I shall have rubies 
now!" 

Don Castro sneered as Fra Gonsales raised 
His hands to Antony, the loving saint, 



58 ^arratme "^ozrtxs. 

And like the Antony that artists paint 
Gonsales looked as his sweet Lord he praised. 

Niched in the church-front stood the loving 
Maid, 
The Mother-Queen Immaculate as fair, 
Above her the rose-window, high in air; — 

In it was put the ruby many-rayed. 

By grace of the great Paduan, rich it glowed 
Through the dark, windy nights far out 

to sea, 
A lighthouse to the sailors; gratefully 
Their prayers to Christ's sweet Mother nightly 
flowed. 

The ruby of the window, red by day, 

But burning like a hundred fires by night, 
Until the Gulf with crimson was alight, 



glxe "gxmx's ^xthvf. 59 

To seamen showed the safe and peaceful way. 

Don Castro sought — the mine he could not 
gain, 

(St. Antony, mayhap, had hid the place). 

Bitter his heart and bitter looked his face; 
How sad is he who seeks for gems in vain! 

He grew to hate Gonsales and his love 

For ^' the slave-hearted peons "; holy rood 
To him was irksome as St. Francis* hood: 

Who seeks for self can seldom look above. 

The devil, in his soul, became more bold, — 
Don Castro dreamed of imps with jeweled 

eyes. 
Of serpents crimsoned in strong ruby 
dyes, 
And waking cried, '' My crimson soul is sold! ** 



60 ^^xxditiv^ ^0jetus. 

One night he did the deed; the Friar knelt 
Beneath the ruby and Our Lady's 
shrine — 

"St. Antony!" — a gasp — a poniard's 
shine: 
Don Castro, mounted high, no sorrow felt. 

Beneath the window lay a crimson pool, 

And on the sea there shone no crimson fire; 
Don Castro, stained w4th red, had his 
desire. 

He held the ruby — he the devil's fool! 

The night was lightless, twice unsteadily 

Don Castro wavered, then he falling 

caught 
The ruby to his heart — the good he 
sought 
Fell with him to the bottom of the sea. 



^Uz "gxidcx'B %nhvf. 61 

At Vera Cruz this simple tale is told, 

And near its coast the sea at eve is red 
With light of the great ruby in its bed 

Beneath the waves, in false Don Castro's hold. 

The Friar's Love still lives: Love never dies; 
For still the sea in storms is crimson-lit, 
Where stood Our Lady's church; no 
pilot's wit 

Is now at fault; the white sail homeward flies. 

He has hid his crime in the deep^ deep sea: 

Who has seen its stain on land ? 
But the sky knows all, and his hopes shall be 

As false as words in the sand. 

The sea and the sky are God's warders true^ 

Each whispers to each all day, 
The lips of the gray and the ear of the blue 

Are telling and hearing always 



63 "^dixvutivfz "^ozms. 

DONA INEZ. 

(suggested by DORE's ^* SPANISH BEGGARS.") 




HROUGH the widest street in Cadiz 
Dona Inez rode one day, 
Clad in costly silk and laces, 

In a group of friends as gay. 

Near the portals of a convent — 

From the Moors just lately won — 
Sat a crowd of dark-skinned beggars 

Basking in the pleasant sun; 
One an old man — he a Christian 

Blind to all the outward light — 
Told his black beads, praying softly 

For all poor souls still in night. 

'* I am but a Moorish beggar,'* 
Said a woman with a child; 



§0txa %nz^. 63 



'^ I am but a Moorish beggar, 

And the Moors are fierce and wild. 
You may talk of Christian goodness — 

Christian Faith and Charity, 
But 171 never be a Christian 

'Till some proof of these I see. 
Christians are as proud and haughty 

As the proudest Moor of all; 
And they hate the men that hate them 

With a hate like bitter gall." 

** You judge rashly, O my sister. 

In the words you speak to me." 

*^ I would be a Christian, blind man: 
Show me Christian charity! 

^^ Lo! here comes proud Dona Inez, 
Very rich and fair to see; 

I am but a Moorish beggar, 
Will the lady come to me ? 



64 "^nxxutxvz ^0jetus. 

No! she will not, for she hateth 
All the children of the Moor. 

If she come, I tell you, blind man, 
I will kneel, and Christ adore!*' 

Passing was the Lady Inez 

When the dark group met her eye, 
And she leant from out her litter 

Smiling on them tenderly. 
** They are poor, they are God's children/' 

Said a voice within her soul. 
And she lightly from her litter 

Stepped to give the beggars dole. 

Sneered, and laughed, and laughing, won- 
dered 

All the other ladies gay; 
And the Lady Inez knew not 

She had saved a soul that day. 



gjeau ^etxau^. 65 




JEAN RENAUD. 

(gerard de nerval.) 

HEN Jean Renaud came home from 
i the war, 
His body and mind were sick and sore. 
*^ Good-day, my mother." *' Good-day, my 

son; 
Your little child's life has just begun." 

"Arrange, my mother, the great white bed, 
That I may lie down and rest my head; 
But make no noise, my mother, for fear 
My wife on her couch of pain may hear.'" 

And when the old hamlet clock had tolled' 
The midnight hour, the death-angel rolled' 



66 '^^vv^tivfz ^0cms* 

Away the stone from the cave of life, 

x\nd Jean Renaud passed from sin and strife. 

^'Mother, dear mother," his poor wife said, 
^'Why do the}^ sing as if one w^ere dead ?*' 
*' Daughter, dear daughter, 'tis but a crowd 
That passes us by, chanting aloud." 

*'But, mother, my dear, why w^eep you so ? 
I see the tears as they shine and flow." 
^^ Alas! the sad truth I cannot hide, 
'Tis our ow^n poor Jean w^ho has just died." 

^'O mother, say to the sexton, who 
Digs in the earth, that a grave for tw^o 
Must be made so very wide and deep 
That my husband, I, and our child may sleep.'* 



^fte garb's Mtavvf. 67 



T£r£ BARD'S STORY. 

[The Prince of this legend was the husband of Ethna, who, 
with her sister Fidalma, also a Princess of Meath, saw St. Patrick 
celebrating- Mass one morning by a river. They were attracted by 
the sight; he answered their questions and baptized them.] 



OVE makes man's life a glory; Hate, a 
hell; 



A warning to all warriors, this I tell: 

Strongest of the Fini, he, the Prince, alone 
Knelt by the river, sad, and made his moan. 
His lands were wide, his people staunch and 

true, 
And in his palace four fair children grew. 

His wife was Ethna, Princess mild of Meath, 
Graceful and tall — a lily in its sheath. 
The Mass was said each day beneath his roof, 
And evil from his household held aloof. 



68 "^^xx^tivz "^ozrtxs. 

And he had seen great Patrick when he came, 
At Paschal time, and lighted Christian flame. 
And he had seen the saint make poison good 
By words of prayer, while hatred near him 
stood. 

And only in defense of clan and life, 

Since he had learned of Christ, had he made 

strife. 
But though his cattle grazed in richest green, 
Black spots and red spots by the river's sheen; 

And though his bards his prowess daily sang, 

His moans beside the reedy river rang 

At fall of night — some piercing loud and 

shrill, 
Others that brought to hearers death-like 

chill. 

^'Forgive^ forgive!'' he murmured; ^'' oh! forgive! 



How can I bear 7ny load of sin and live? 
Oh! words of fire you spoke ^ great Patrick^ Sai?it^ 
Ere the clear stream had washed from me sin^s 
taint. 

* Even Red Conn, the slayer of your kin, 
Forgive, forgive, if you would Heaven win/ 
^He slew my men' 'Forgive,' the Saint re- 
plied, 

* Though through his wrath your clansmen 

oft have died.' 

' Forgive,' he said. ''He laughed my threats to 

scorn! ' 
^Forgive, forgive! and win eternal morn,' 
^ Forgive Red Conn, and hurt him not, I pray; 
Your sister's son is he. Forgive, I say!' 

^Let me hut fight for ChiHst with sword and 
brand — ' 



70 ^at^ratixrc l^acms. 



^Thou canst not fight thy sin with carnal 

hand!' 
And then I promised, and the water flowed, 
And all my heart with love of Patrick glowed. 

Conn came not near me; hid he dark and deep 

In marsh and bog where strange, wild crea- 
tures sleep. 

Once, when I thought of clansmen cold and 
dead, 

Killed by his hand ere he to bogs had fled. 

My wrath awoke, but dying soon in peace. 

It to my better musings gave release. 

Peace made me proud. One day I chased 

the deer. 
And found my enemy crouched low in fear 

Among the fern, i made a bound at him; 
He fled, not fighting, to this river's brim. 



^feje yard's Mtoxvf. 71 

Pale, worn, he was; my hatred quick awoke, 
But in my heart the voice of Patrick spoke. 

^Forgive, forgive!' I heard the whisper run 
All through the reeds, 'Remember Mary's 

Son.' 
I listened not: I drove Conn to his knee; 
His eyes were like a deer's in agony. 

My brain was drunk with rage, my blood was 

fire. 
His death — the death of Conn was mv desire. 
His eyes were all that spoke; the whispering 

leaves 
Said, 'Oh! forgive; great Patrick for you 

grieves.' 

I struck him down, and then looked in his 

face. 
O Christ! O God! how I did lose Thy grace! 



72 "^uxx^tivz "^ozrtxB. 



I saw his face! 'Twas Conn's no more! O 

sight! 
Wouldst Thou hadst shriveled me, O Lord 

of light! 

/ saw His face^ as He is on the cross! 

There He lay prone upon the sodden moss. 

The blood was His, not Conn's, that reddened 

all 
The little shallows where the reeds grew tall.** 

if. H. * if. Hi -K^ 

And, as the world shall last, the legends say, 
Sweet Ethna's husband moans his life away. 
Among the reeds his sighing all may hear; 
And may it such grace-losing make us fear! 

For Love makes life a glory; Hate is vain, 
Except to wound our Saviour's heart again. 



^ MxvzdisU %zQzna. 73 



A SWEDISH LEGEND. 




HOU wilt be mine!" the Swedish 
monarch sighed. 
*^ No; never thine! " the fair Christine replied. 
*' Thou hast a queen — a good and lovely 
bride." 

" But thou shalt have bright robes and laces 

old, 
And thou shalt wear a dazzling crown of gold, 
And thou shalt half of all my kingdom hold! " 

*' My soul is dearer than thy garments bright; 
I love not flowers plucked in guilt's dark 

night; 
I fear the wrong, I love God's holy right/' 



74 ^arratitre ^0^rtX5. 



**Thou shalt be mine, or die in torture dire, 
Thou shalt not die by water or by fire, 
My love was life, now death is my desire." 

And in a cask, strong-spiked with points of 

steel. 
Men place the maiden, and then roughly wheel 
The cask along by blow of fist and heel. 

Ah, she is dead, with blood upon her brow; 
Three angels with white wings before her 

bow 
And bear her up, — her pain is rapture now. 



^ ^alXaxX of ^sc^ndzv^^zQ. 75 



A BALLAD OF ISCANDER-BEG. 




T. MICHAEL stands upon my right, 
Therefore I have no fear; 
When he shall cease his holy fight 

My end will then be near." 
Thus spake the brave George Castriot 
Albania's Christian knight, 
Who once with Moslems cast his lot, 
(With those who love our Jesu not). 

They called him by another name — 

The hateful Moslem crew! — 
Iscander-Beg! They knew his fame. 

And deep that fame they rue. 



7G glarratitr.e ^0cius. 



To-day, beside the Golden Horn, 

Full many a Moslem dame 

Most sore affrights her latest born 

With that bright name that Christians mourn. 

His father was a noble good. 

His mother, sweet and fair. 
Who loved our Jesu's holy rood 

And breathed forth many a prayer 
For those who with the infidel 
In need of Christian solace stood. 
And in their sins were forced to dwell 
( Her prayers, O Castriot, served thee well!). 

The Turkish hordes swept down one day, 

Ferocious and armed well. 
Four little boys that were at play 

A hostage to them fell; 
For Christians could not hold their own — 
They were the Moslem's prey. 



Three of them had to Heaven flown 
Before the fourth was fully grown. 

x\lbania's blood flowed swift and true 

Within his princely veins; 
The Sultan learned to know it, too, 

And kept in golden chains 
The soul of him that was Christ's child, 
Baptized as he knew well; 
But conscience-stifled, soul-beguiled. 
His heart and strength grew fierce and wild. 

" Weak are the corselets you have brought! " 

The fearful Sultan said 
Unto the armorers, who wrought 

Strong shields for heart and head. 
'^My bold Albanian's naked skin. 
His arms when clothed with naught, 
Will let no arrow enter in; 
To him your thickest steel is thin. 



78 ^arratme '^ocras. 

Hail, Alexander,* lord and prince!" 

The fearful Sultan cried, 
Not dreaming that his hosts would wince 

Before that name of pride. 
Iscander-Beg is Castriot, 
(How deep his great sword dints!) 
Though for a time he cast his lot 
With those who loved our Jesu not. 

II. 

He reveled with the Moslem swine, 

Pierced many a true man's heart; 
He spilled our Christian blood like wine, 

And fought with skillful art; 
But the Good Shepherd sought for him. 
From him God would not part. 
For *' Salve" ('twas his childish hymn) 
Stopped many a sinful thought and whim, 



* Iscander-Beg— Lord Alexander. 



For childish thoughts are lifetime's dreams 

Within us unto death, 
They come upon us when pain seems 

To stop our very breath. 
And so Iscander-Beg, the strong, 
At least the legend saith, 
Was led by childish thoughts along 
By music of the ^^ Salve " song. 

And mothers' prayers work wonders strange, 

They never are in vain; 
No earthly power can check their range, 

No heavenly will. 'T is plain 
Christ's Mother loves all mothers well, 
Can SAe be deaf to mothers' pain? 
So 'Scander-Beg, an infidel. 
Apostate came from Moslem hell. 

There shone a day for Christian lands, 
A wonder-working day, 



80 ^ai::ratxtrje "^ozvxs. 

When Castriot looked at his hands, 

All soiled with bloody clay: 
*^My soul's like this, God's mark is there, 
No sin can hide that mark away! 
My sins are scarlet; can I dare 
To ask the Christ to make me fair?" 

A mother's prayers all battles win! 

He left his worthless gold, 
He cast aside the nets of sin 

That chained him in their hold. 
He tore away the crescent moon 
Which fast was growing (Moslems told 
How it would swing o'er Europe soon). 
It waned! — this was a mother's boon. 

*' Iscander-Beg! " he cried, *^ to hell 

I cast that title vile; 
I spit upon thee, infidel; 

At all thy honors false, I smile. 



^ glaXXaxt 0f ^sc^ndzx^'gzQ. 81 

Poor as a monk, I choose the cross; 
Ah! never shall vain things beguile 
Me to the loving of base dross; 
These honors to the fiends I toss! " 

We know the rest: he saved the world, 
Our world, from Moslems' rule, 

And on their running ranks he hurled 

(This man who had been Moslems' tool!) 

His mighty strength. Brave Castriot 

Became a child in Jesu's school; 

Knelt weeping that he cast his lot 

With those who loved our Lady not. 

Oh! thoughts of childhood do not die 
Like thoughts of man and youth;. 

They change not like an April sky 
They live in lies or truth, 

And, be they false or be they true, 

They work us good or ruth; 



82 '^KXXZtiV^ "^OZWCS. 

And well George Castriot's mother knew 
That Jesu grants when mothers sue. 

'^St. Michael stands upon my right, 

My own right arm I bare; 
While he is with me in the fight, 

I need no armor there. 
My sword, best tempered blade of all, 
Will cleave a yielding hair! 
But if Lord Jesu will, I fall — 
Maria! hear a sinner's call! '* 



SONNETS 



: 

i 

I 




SONNETS 



PERPETUAL YOUTH, 

IS said there is a fount in Flower 
Land, — 



De Leon found it, — where Old Age away 
Throws weary mind and heart, and fresh as day 
Springs from the dark and joins Aurora's band: 
This tale, transformed by some skilled trou- 

vere's wand 
From the old myth in a Greek poet's lay, 
Rests on no truth. Change bodies as Time 

may, 
Souls do not change though heavy be his hand. 
Who of us needs this fount ? What soul is old ? 

85 



86 Monnzts. 



Age is a mask, — in heart we grow more young, 
For in our winters we talk most of spring; 
And as we near, slow-tottering, God's safe fold. 
Youth's loved ones gather nearer; — though 

among 
The seeming dead, youth's songs more clear 

they sing. 



m ®n& Wic g0we ov ftate. 87 



0-F ONE WE LOVE OR HATE. 

I 



^^ 



N old Assisi, Francis loved so well 
His Lady Poverty, that to his heart 



He pressed her heart, nor felt the deadly smart 
From lips of frost, nor saw the fire of hell 
From lurid eyes that fevered Dante's cell. 
And parches souls who, hating, feel her dart. 
He chose her, and he dwelt w^th her apart. 
The two were one, illumined through Love's 
spell: 

He loved her, and she glowed, a lambent star; 
He loved her, and the birds came at his call — 
Her frosts w^ere pearls, her face was fair to see. 
He sang his lady's praises near and far. 
He saw our world as Adam ere the Fall — 
So Love transfigures even Poverty. 



88 Monnzts. 



THEOCRITUS, 




APHNIS is mute, and hidden nymphs 

complain, 
And mourning mingles with their fountains' 

song; 
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long 
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus- 

plain; 
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain; 
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong 
Done by the gods, when gods and men were 

strong. 
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain. 
O sweetest singer of the olden days. 
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead; 



"XJ^ZOCXitUB. 89 



The gods are gone, but poets never die; 
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, 
Sicilian nightingales enraptured 
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the 

sky. 



90 Monnzts. 



MAURICE DE GUERIJV, 




HE old wine filled him, and he saw, 

with eyes 

Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair 
Unseen by others; to him maidenhair 
And waxen lilacs, and those birds that rise 
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise, 
Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth 

everywhere 
He, like sad Jaques, found a music rare 
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 
A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, 
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed, 
Till earth and heaven met within his breast; 
As if Theocritus in Sicily 
Had come upon the Figure crucified 
And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. 



gessij:a. 91 



JESSICA. 



'i^Sk, 



HE youth beneath her balcon sings of 
^^:^^^| love — 

Old Shylock's gone: '^ O Jessica, come thou 
Unto this heart which in one fervent vow 
Has burned its flesh and blood!" The 

moments move 
As days in Eden; she goes, like a dove. 
From great St. Mark's at Venice, to endow 
Her lover with her life. The rosy Now 
Seems Heaven itself, and he the Lord thereof. 
But love is rainbow-tinted, and as short 
As is the life of rainbows. ^^ Mine ? Oh, nay! " 
Say'st thou, fair Jessica, who maketh sport 
Of that old Jew, thy father? In love's court 
Thou dost eat lotus, but old lovers say 
To love's own chamiber memories oft resort. ^ 



92 Monncts. 



A NIGHT IN JUNE. 



I. 




ICH is the scent of clover in the air, 
And from the woodbine, moonlight 
and the dew 
Draw finer essence than the daylight knew; 
Low murmurs and an incense everywhere! 
Who spoke? Ah! surely in the garden there 
A subtile sound came from the purple crew 
That mount wistaria masts, and there's a clue 
Of some strange meaning in the rose-scent rare: 
Silence itself has voice in these June nights — 
Who spoke? Why, all the air is full of speech 
Of God's own choir, all singing various parts; 



^ ^xqM in "gxxnz. 93 

Be quiet and listen: hear — the very lights 
In yonder town, the waving of the beech, 
The maples' shades, — cry of the Heart of 
hearts! 



II. 



On such a night spoke raptured Juliet 
From out the balcon; and young Rosalind, 
Wandered in Arden like the April wind; 
And Jessica the bold Lorenzo met; 
And Perdita her silvered lilies set 
In some quaint vase, to scent the Prince's mind 
With thoughts of her; and then did Jaques find 
Sad tales, and from them bitter sayings get. 
To all of these the silence sang their thought; 
To all of these it gave their thought new grace: 
Soprano of the lil}^, roses' lone 
And passionate contralto, oak boughs' bass — 



94: ^01XlXCti 



All sing the thought we bring them, be it 

fraught 
With the sad love of lovers, or God's own. 



III. 



This sweetness and this silence fill my soul 
With longing and dull pain, that seem to 

break 
Some cord within my heart, and sudden take 
Life out of life; and then there sounds the roll 
Of wheels upon the road, the distant toll 
Of bells within the town: these rude things 

make 
Life wake to life; and all the longings shake 
Their airy wings, — swift fly the pain and dole. 
Again the silence and the mute sounds sweet 
Begin their speaking; I alone am still 
What are you singing, O you starry flowers 



Upon the jasmine ? — ^' Void and incomplete/' 
And you, clematis? — ^^ Void the joys that fill 
The heart of love until His Heart is ours." 



IV. 



O choir of silence, without noise of word! 
A human voice would break the mystic spell 
Of wavering shades and sounds; the lily bell 
Here at my feet sings melodies unheard; 
And clearer than the voice of any bird, — 
Yes, even than that lark which loves so well, 
Hid in the hedges, all the world to tell 
In trill and triple notes that May has stirred. 
^'OLove complete! " soft sings the mignon- 
ette; 
''O Heart of All!" deep sighs the red, red 

rose; 
" O Heart of Christ! " the lily voices meet 



96 J^ on net 



In fugue on fugue: and from the flag-edged, 

wet, 
Lush borders of the lake, the night wind blows 
The tenor of the reeds — '"^ Love, love com- 
plete!" 



S^^ '^ovf^'gxingzx. 97 



TJIjE JOY-BRINGER. 




OT when old Bion's idyls sweet were 
sung, 

Or when fine Horace scorned the vulgar herd, 
And praised his frugal fare — each chosen word 
Writ where full skins of rare Falernian hung 
Above a table with rich garlands flung 
By Roman slaves; not when the dancer stirred 
The air of spring, like swaying wave or bird, 
Was there true joy the tribes of men among!" 

These idyls and these odes hide sadness deep 
And canker worms despite the shining gold 
We gild them with; their lucent music flows 



98 MonnziB. 



To noble words at times, but words of sleep, 
But words of dreaming; life was not Life of 

old — 
It came to earth when God the Son arose! 



II. 

The fair fagade, the carved acanthus leaf, 
The sparkling sea where clearest blue meets 

blue, 
The piled-up roses, steeped in silver dew 
Upon the marble tiles, the white-robed chief 
Of some great group of men seeks cool relief 
Upon a galley hung with every hue 
That glads the eye, while violets slave girls 

strew 
To cithern-sounds; — this picture artists drew: 



' I 

And, moved, our poets cry for the dead Pan; j 

Turn from the rood and sing the fluted reed, — \ 

"Arcadia, O Arcadia, come again!" ] 

A cry of fools — a cry unworthy man ] 

Who was a sodden thing before the Deed | 
Of Love Divine turned blinded slaves to men! 



100 MonnztB. 



CON so LA TIOJV. 



I. 




HE swift years pass, fast flies the snow, 
Fast blow the gusts of autumn time, 
Fast grows the summer from its prime, 
Fast the world-currents ebb and flow. 
Comes death, goes life, and like the glow 
Of poet's thoughts in poet's rhyme 
That raise us to a golden clime. 
Illusions soothe us as we go: 
We are but children, — God is great! 
In face of death we could not live. 
Were there no castles in the clouds. 
No earthly hopes that hearts elate, 
No daily joys His dear hands give, 
No flowers to hide the sombre shrouds. 



©0ixs0Xati0tx* 101 



II. 

New days! new friends — we love them all! 

God gives new sunlight each new day, 

And when the older pass away, 

He throws some blossoms on death's pall, — 

He puts fresh garlands on the wall 

That hides from us the holy ray, — 

The Blessed Vision that alway 

Will shine for those who hear His call: 

Which are the deeper, — smiles or prayers? 

Why chide us, if we laugh to-day 

With newer friends, w^hen hearts are cold 

That once knew all our joys and cares ? 

No man is false, who, true, can say 

*' Smiles for the new, prayers for the old! " 



102 Monnzts. 



RAPHAEL, 

TEEPED in the glow and glory of old 
Rome — 




So old, so young, in life, and death, and art — 
His pictures shine, so near to Truth's great 

heart. 
That through the ages Truth has in her home 
The brightest stars in her celestial dome 
Kept them alive; and will, till time is done, 
Fill them with stronger light than fire or sun. 
Great Prince of Painters! laurel wreathes his 

name; 
The world may babble, — she's an ancient 

dame! 
And say his life and art held much of clay. 
Reproaching him; yet saints fell on their way. 
If sin repented be a blot on fame, 



llap^lxajeX. 103 



His fame is fameless, though he reached fame's 

goal, 
And left us glory shining from his soul. 



i 



104 ^0txtxjets. 



FRA ANGELICO. 




RT is true art when art to God is true, 
And only then: to copy Nature's work 
Without the chains that run the whole world 

through 
Gives us the eye without the lights that lurk 
In its clear depths: no soul, no truth is there. 
Oh, praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush! 
Oh, love your Titian and his carnal air! 
Give me the trilling of a pure-toned thrush, 
And take your crimson parrots. Artist — saint! 
O Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed 
In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint; 
You showed to us pure joys for which you 

sighed. 



Your heart was in your work, you never 

feigned: 
You left us here the Paradise you gained! 



106 ^onnztB. 



COLUMBUS THE WORLD-GIVER, 

HO doubts has met defeat ere blows 
can fall. 



Who doubts must die with no palm in his hand; 
Who doubts shall never be of that high band 
Which clearly answer — Present! to Death's 

call; 
For Faith is life, and, though a funeral pall 
Veil our fair Hope, and on our promised land 
A mist malignant hang, if Faith but stand 
Among our ruins we shall conquer all. 

O faithful soul, that knew no doubting low. 
O Faith incarnate, lit by Hope's strong flame, 
And led by Faith's own cross to dare all ill 
And find our world! — but more than this we 
owe 



^olnrnhns tixe WioxXd^mxizx. 107 

To thy true heart; thy pure and glorious name 
Is one clear trumpet call to Faith and Will. 



108 MonnztB. 



CERVANTES. 




HERE was a time when books of chiv- 
alry- 
Were full of monster-men and dragons great; 
When Amadis of Gaul and his fair mate 
Were bound in love against all rivalry; 
When he who strove a faithful knight to be 
Must lengthened vigils keep and, longing, wait 
And also fight until he stood, elate, 
O'er giants and dragons in proud victory. 

Then came Quixote, peerless gentleman, 
Who put the dragons and the giants to flight, 
And turned the world from knights all amor- 
ous; 
Then through the world the rippled laughter 
ran 



(^cxxi^nUs. 109 



When Sancho came. No shadows are the 

knight 
And clown our great Cervantes made for us. 



110 .bonnets. 




FREDERIC OZAXAM, 

SOUL alight with purest tlame of love, 
A heart aglow with sweetest charity, 
A mind all tilled — and this is rarity — 
With even -balanced thoughts, his eyes above, 
Yet saw the earth in its dread verity; 
For is't not true that some who Heaven see 
Cast down no looks upon the shadows of 
This shadowed world ? A serpent, yet a dove. 
He read the world and, seeking, found the clue 
To all the secrets of our troubled time, 
And from the past drew other secrets down; 
He placed, 'mid Dante's bays, a diamond true 
Of purest water; and in every clime 
Prayers of God's poor add gems to his bright 
crown. 



^t tTxje gnxX ot ^xxtnxnn. ill 



AT THE END OE AUTUMN, 




OST ! all the flush of roses and of skies 
That change at morning to the red of 
eve, 
O'er clover-waves that in soft meadows heave 
In foam of blossoms with white-fringed eyes — 
The changing glamour that the sun fays leave, 
The snow of summer that on green sward lies 
When roses faint and all their spells unweave 
In vale and coppice, ere the autumn flies! 

Ah, naught is left to me but winter days, 
For all my summer has been lost to me 
Amid dull drudging in the toil of trade. 
Lost gold of grain fields, green of country 
ways — 



112 Monnzts. 



A dream! — my dream! for one whole day of 

ye 
I'd risk all gold of men, and be well paid I 



"Xxnz %ovz. 113 



TJ^UB LOVE. 

pis love the passion that the poets feign, 
_ m Drawn from the ruins of old Grecian 

time, 
Born of the Hermae and all earthly slime, 
And tricked by troubadours in trappings vain 
Of flowers fantastic, like a Hindoo fane, 
Or the long meter of an antique rhyme 
Dancing in dactyls ? Is love, then, a crime — 
A rosy day's eternity of pain? 

If we love God, we know what loving is; 
For love is God's: He sent it to the earth, 
Half-human, half-divine, all glorious — 
Half-human, half-divine, but wholly His; 
Not loving God, we know not true love's worth,^ 
We taste not the great gift He gave for us. 



114 MonnztB. 



THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOKWORM. 



READ, O friend, no pages of old lore, 
Which I loved well, and yet the fly- 
ing days, 
That softly passed as wind through green 

spring ways 
And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore, 
Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more, 
Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays. 
Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze, 
Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore. 
I read a book to which old books are new, 
And new books old. A living book is mine — 
In age, three years: in it I read no lies; 
In it to myriad truths I find the clue — 



A tender, little child; but I divine 
Thoughts high as Dante*s in her clear blue 
eyes. 



116 Monn^ts. 



THE AFTER THOUGHT, 




HY is it that our life seems full of 
wrong? 

That even poets, who are human birds, 
Set saddest music to the saddest words, 
And mingle sighs and tears in all their song? 
For Chaucer's marguerites still bloom along 
Our rustic fences, herdsmen and their herds 
Know Shakespeare's cookoo-cups, and the 

new curds 
Are hard and white, and violet-scent is strong: 

' Tis not because the gods are silent all, 
For in Siena the Brigata held 
Their revels, and joy's golden badges wore, — 
So sayeth sweet Folgore, — carnival 



glxe MUX ^\toxxQU. 117 

Reigned blithe and jocund; — Giant Thought 

has felled 
The gay Page Laughter: there is mirth no 

more. 



118 Monnzts. 




BY EIGHT DIVINE. 

N this free land I know a tyrant king 
Who rules supreme a kingdom all his 

own, 
Who reigns supreme by right divine alone, 
Who governs slaves that always cringe and 

sing,— 
"He walks! He talks!'* in most admiring 

tone; 
They quail with fear if he but make a moan, 
And wild confusion comes if he but fling 
Away his scepter — coral, jingling thing! 
He is a king, though loving anarchy, 
A tyrant king, whom our fond land obeys, 
A tyrant king, yet scarce a mimic man; 



"^vf ^x0M gmxtxe. 119 

And this whole land is bound in monarchy, 
All mother-hearts some little ruler sways, 
If harder fathers be republican. 



120 Monnzts. 



ON MEADOWS GREEN. 

HEN the first blush and bloom of life 
have fled. 




And on the summit of youth's mound we stand, 
And youth to manhood gladly gives his hand, 
And then quick dies, and manhood in his stead 
Shows us a mist that hides an unknown land, 
By wild, chill breezes are our faces fanned: 
The world before us! — and no longer red. 
Nor glowing with fair hope, for youth is dead. 
A mist all gray is drawn before the world — 
This great wide life! To fight life all alone 
Is now our lot; yet other men have seen 
The same vague foe; and patient souls have 

hurled 
Their fear away, and, going, made no moan, 
To find the mist God's rain on meadows green. 



%XXnBion. 121 




ILLUSION, 

(after a sonnet by sainte-beuve.) 

NTO the dimness of a chamber closed, 
Curtained with care and full of slum- 
b'rous rest, 
A ray of light came, sloped from the west, 
To the small cradle where a child reposed — 
A dainty cradle, laced and satin-rosed 
By mother's hand, and in its fairy nest 
The child soft slumbered, by the angels blest — 
Near it lay Mouser, white-furred and pink- 
nosed: 
The cat was motionless as if of clay, 
Until the gold ray moved upon the floor 
O'er crimson carpet in its wanton game, — 



122 Monnzis. 



Then all a-sudden Mouser saw the ray 
And chased it till it vanished evermore: 
Ah, sleeping child, thus we chase wealth and 
fame! 



"^ovfzrahzx. 123 




NOVEMBER, 

HE crimson and the russet and the 
gold, 

The palest green that gives a hint of spring, 
And nameless colors that swift breezes fling 
From waving trees: tall dahlias crisped by cold 
Vie with the sunrise, as some men when old 
Are brightest, or as swans, when dying, sing, 
Or a sweet strain the fickle zephyrs bring 
Stopped short before its burden is all told. 
O fair November, lesson us, we pray; 
O sweet, sad season, teach us ere you go; 
O teach us, ere your mellow lights have passed. 
The secret in the fading of your day; 
That when life's end approaches, we may know 
The way to make our fairest, brightest, last! 



124 ^otxuets. 



LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS, 



OF FLOWERS. 




HERE were no roses till the first child 
died, 



No violets, nor balmy-breathed heart's-ease, 
No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees. 
The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed 
And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide, 
Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas. 
Meeting and parting as the young spring breeze 
Runs giddy races playing seek and hide: 
For all flowers died when Eve left Paradise; 
And all the world was flowerless awhile, 
Until a little child was laid in earth; 
Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, 
And from its lips rose-petals for its smile. 



%ZQznds of tUz "^XOXVZXB. 125 

And so all flowers from that child's death 
took birth. 




THE CHILD. 

N the late winter, when the breath of 

spring 

Had almost softened the great fields of snow, 
A mother died, and, wandering to and fro, 
Her sad child sought her — frightened little 

thing! — 
Through the drear woodland, as on timid wing 
A young bird flutters; in the bushes low 
It sunk in sleep, thus losing all its woe, 
With smiling lips her dear name murmuring: 
No loving arms were there to hold it fast, 
There were no kisses for it warm and sweet, 
But snowflakes, pitying, fell like frozen tears. 



126 ^otxrtjets. 



Then said its angel, ^' Snowflakes, ye shall last 
Beyond the life of snowflakes; at Spring's feet 
Bloom ye as flowers through all the coming 
years!*' 



II. 



MARGARET. 



SHAMED before the world a woman 

stood 

Near a great church, where lovely statues line 
The vaulted chapels; if tears be a sign 
Of sorrow, she was sorrowing; her hood 
Showed golden hair astray that never could, 
Even in sin, forget its young design 
To curl like tendrils of a summer vine. 
From out the church passed women sternly 

good; 
Upon her fevered brow was laid no hand, 



%ZQzmXs 0f m^ ^Xomzxs. 127 

Though Christ had blessed her sister Magda- 
len; 

She wept and prayed, yet scornful words w^ere 
said; 

But soon soft snowflakes, falling o'er the land, 

Soothed her hot brow: her angel spoke, ^^ TAese, 
then, 

Shall bloom as flowers when ye lie cold and 
dead." 



III. 



A ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. 




FAIRER light than ever since has 

shone, 
Fell on that garden where Queen Eve's sweet 

bower 
Was hid in roses and the jasmine flower. 
Curtained with eglantine, and overrun 



128 ^0tXtXJet5. 



With morning-glories glowing in the sun 

Late into noon, unheeding of the hour 

When now they close; these were our mother's 

dower! 
She lived and loved amid all flowers, save one. 
There was no red rose in the garden wide 
Of all her world, until its mistress went 
From out its gates with roses in her hand, 
Spoil of past joys; then, like anew-made bride, 

She redly blushed, and that first blush has lent 
The rose its color over all our land. 



^JXZ 3z^Xt. 129 



TJIi: HEART, 



OW red it burns within yon crimson 

rose! 

Deeper than fire in rubies is its hue 
Of brightest blood, which, shed for me and you, 
From that dear Heart has flowed, forever flows. 
In waving sprays of buds, carved mountain 

snows, 
I see her heart, forever pure and true, — 
The Virgin's heart! — and in the morning dew 
The tears of joy she shed when her great woes 
Were lost in Heaven : and all June things speak, 
From ambient perfume in the sunlit air 
To trembling stalklets tipped by clover bloom, 
Of Christ, His Mother, and the Heart we seek 



130 MonnztB. 



Through tangled roads and by-ways foul or 

fair, 
The Heart that cheers us in the deepest gloom. 



&xdzx. 131 




(from the ITALIAN OF ST. FRANCIS D*ASSISI.) 

Our Lord Speaks: 
ND though I fill thy heart with warm- 



est love, 

Yet in true order must thy heart love me; 
For without order can no virtue be. 
By thine own virtue, then, I, from above 
Stand in thy soul; and so, most earnestly, 
Must love from turmoil be kept wholly free. 
The life of fruitful trees, the seasons of 
The circling year, move gently as a dove. 
I measured all the things upon the earth; 
Love ordered them, and order kept them fair, 
And love to order must be truly wed. 



132 ^0txtxjets* i 

! 
O soul, why all this heat of little worth? ; 

Why cast out order with no thought or care? ' 

For by love's warmth must love be governed. ; 



^aitxt gjevesa to ®nx %oxd. 133 




SAINT TERESA TO OUR LORD. 

DO not love Thee for the joy, O Lord, 
Which Thou hast promised souls who 

love Thee well; 
I do not fear Thee for the fires of hell 
Which burn for those whose right to Thy 

reward 
Is lost by sin; but, with the whole accord 
Of mind, and soul, and longing heart as well, 
I love Thee for the time when Thou didst dwell 
Scorned on the earth, mocked by a faithless 

horde: 
Were there no Heaven, I would love Thee still. 
I love Thee for Thy cross, Thy thorn-crowned 

Head; 



134 Monnzts. 



For Thy dread Passion, Lord, I love Thee best; 
And though in firmest hope I wait thy will, 
Compared with love, my strongest hope is dead ; 
For, without hope, in love I'd, trusting, rest! 



TxonhXzd MouXb. 135 



c^ 




TROUBLED SOULS. 

O seek true rest and peace in wilds 
away, 



It is not strange that men have fled the world 
From all the storm and strife perpetual hurled 
At the fair form of silence all the day; 
For day and night do good and evil sway 
In close-knit fight, as when the Titans twirled 
And twisted in fierce combat: never furled 
Is Satan's flag, blood-reddened in hell's ray. 
And though Thy cross, dear Christ, shines 

ever bright, 
And Thy sweet Mother downward bends her 

gaze, 
And Thy high saints own us in brotherhood, — 



136 M>onnztB. 



Our souls are troubled, the world's wrong 

seems right, 
Our sight is dim, we falter in the maze; 
For all our evil seems so near our good. 



^jeace. 137 




PEACE. 

EACE, not of earth, I ask of Thee, O 

God, 

Peace, not in death, and yet Thy will be done; 
I would not die until my soul has won 
Some little grace: a barren, withered sod 
My life has been, — now touch me w^th Thy rod, 
That I may blossom, as in summer sun 
Thy flowers open; pray Thee give me one 
Sweet touch of peace, for I am but a clod. 
I know that Thou art all and I am naught. 
Yet I would show my new-found love for Thee 
By days all filled with striving for thy grace. 
Peace, peace, O peace! the peace which Thou 

hast bought 
With Precious Blood for us, O give it me. 
Dear Lamb of God, that I may see Thy face! 



138 Monnzts. 




A QUESTION, 

ROM thy whole life take all the sweet- 
est days 

Of earthly joy; take love before it cools; 

Take words far-brought by all the learned 
schools 

Since man first thought; then take the bright- 
est rays 

Which poets limned with their rose-flushed 
tools; 

Take heart-wrung music chastened with strict 
rules 

Of greatest masters; and in all thy ways 

Find things that make men only pleasure's 
fools. 



^ ^nzstion. 139 



Take these; beside them lay one heart-felt 

prayer; 
Take these; beside them lay one little deed — 
One simple act done for the great Christ- 
Heart— 
And all earth's fairest toys like graspless air 
To it will be; this being, then what need 
To strive for things that will, with time, 
depart ? 



140 ^0tXlXJCtS. 






as^^B^^ 



THE ANSWER, 

ET me forget the world — all, all, but 
Thee; 

Let my whole soul arise as smoke from fire 
In praise of Thee; let only one desire 
Fill my whole heart — that through eternity. 
Forever and forever, I may be 
As incense ever rising to the Sire, 
The Son, and Spirit; may I never tire 

Of praising thus the glorious Trinity! 

Poor soul, poor soul, such earthliness hast thou! 
The world's thyself, thou canst not flee from it; 
Thy prayers are selfish when thou prayest best, 
Thy love is little, and thy warmest vow 



^fte ^UBX^ZX. 141 



As charred wood moistened, the fire free from 

it; 
Thou lackest much, but Christ will give the 
rest. 



142 ^0UtXJetS* 



WE CONQUER GOD. 




WORLD, great world, now thou art all 

my own. 

In the deep silence of my soul I stay 
The current of thy life, though the wild day 
Surges around me, I am all alone; — 
Millions of voices rise, yet .my weak tone 
Is heard by Him who is the Light, the Way, 
All Life, all Truth, the center of Love's ray; 
Clamor, O Earth, the Great God hears my 

moan! 
Prayer is the talisman that gives us all, 
We conquer God by force of His own love, 
He gives us all; when prostrate we implore — 



Wiz (^onquzx ^od. 143 

The Saints must listen ; prayers pierce Heaven's 

wall; 
The humblest soul on earth, when mindful of 
Christ's promise, is the greatest conqueror. 



144 Monnzts. 




AFTER LENT, 

OW the drear storm is past, the snow is 
gone, 



And from the brown earth peeps the violet, 
And from the west, where late the dim sun set 
In winter clouds with weak rays, pale and wan, 
Comes light reflected of a newer dawn; 
Dark days have passed since the sad Mother 

met 
The sweet Saint John, with her dark garments 

wet 
With precious blood shed by the Holy One: 

Light in the East! — Light in the East! The sun 
Up-blazes in his splendor from the gloom. 



^fUx gjCtXt^ 145 



Light in the East! — and all the doubt is past, 
And all earth's beauty buds, — the risen One 
Has taken from our race the seal of doom,— 
Sweet peace has come, — and we are free at last ! 



146 ^XrtttxetS. 



''RESURREXIT SICUT DIXIT. " 



a 




ND He has risen!" O my God, my 
Lord, 
When shall I cease to pierce Thy heart with 

woe ? 
For all my life I've wandered to and fro 
From sin to sin, and Thou hast kept strict 

ward 
And watch upon me, staying Thy dread sword 
Of justice o'er me. Even now I know, 
Though I have washed where the clear waters 

flow 
From out Thy rock, my heart is with a cord 
Bound fast to sin. ** And He is Christ indeed! '* 
And all His brightness makes me feel my sin; 



''"^zsnxxz^it Micxxi gxa^'it/^ 147 

For as He brightens, I grow darker still — 
A spot upon Christ's sun; yet, in my need 
For me He's risen! I will enter in 
His joyful heart, and wait His holy will! 



148 ^0nixjetB. 



THE LESSON OF THE SEASON, 

HAT comfort now, when summer days 
have fled, 



Have you, O heart, that in the sunshine basked ? 
Have ye, O hands, that held all that was asked ? 
For all your fruits and flowers lie frosted, dead. 
You did not dream amid the roses red. 
Gold-hearted, scented, which your green 

bowers masked. 
That cold would come, and with it wild winds 

tasked 
To tear away the garlands from your head. 

O lover of red roses and red wine, 

O scorner of Christ's Blood, to whom a prayer 



glxe %ZS50n of tUz MZclSOlX. 149 

Brought thoughts of dying, shudders, and 

vague fear, 
Will dreams of pleasure and past joys of thine 
Make dreary winter hours more bright and fair 
Amid your dust and ashes ? Death is here. 



150 MonnztB. 



GOLDEN NOON. 



DONIS has come back; cicadas sing, 
Though twelve months silent, for 

July is here; 
And thou, O Aphrodite, void of fear, 
Dost sport in gold; and thou, gold-hearted 

thing, 
O water-lily, drink'st (where reapers fling 
Their serried loads of many a barbed spear) 
The scent of new-mown hay; and vague, yet 

near. 
The voices of the noonday chirpers ring. 

The sky is blue and gold and pearl-besprent, 
High blazes color, larkspur, poppy, pink; 



^CfXdzn 3oon. 151 

The air is incense; it is joy to live; 
Yet only soulless creatures are content. 
Alas! in all this splendor we must think, 
Beyond this beauty what has earth to give ? 



152 ^ortujcts, 



TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER, 




OMES that sad voice, O poet, from 
your heart? — 
That austere voice that vibrates on the strings 
Of your sweet lyre, and into blithe song brings 
Notes solemn, as if Christian chants should 

start 
Into wierd concord with the notes that dart 
From Pluto's bride in exile when she sings 
Of woodland days, when near her mother's 

springs. 
To Syrinx-music, she bade care depart: 
In all your songs the birds and trees are heard, 
But through your singing sounds an under- 
tone — 



To %xcUKxd WiKtson ^xXdcx. 153 



c:^^ <^' 



Wind-message through the reeds, not sung, 

but sighed: — 
Your heart sings like a silver throated bird, 
Your soul, remembering, sea-like, makes its 

moan. 
Not for dead gods, but that the Christ has died. 



OTHER POEMS 




OTHER POEMS. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 

HE shadow of palms is still, but stiller 
the tall lilies' flame 



(Emblems of Venus and Lilith), and 
blazes the sun like a boss, — 
A boss on the Archangel's shield hung in the 
blue of the sky, — 
For the Lady of Noon has arisen and 
scattered her poppies abroad. 
The flower narcissus is bending, drooping, yet 
loath to die. 
But the lilies are scarlet, defiant; they, 
stately, with one accord, 

157 



158 ®iUzx ^ja^ms. 



Face the fierce gaze of the sun god, knowing 
no pain or shame, 
While fauns in the groves are moaning, 
mourning a nameless loss. 

Where is there one spot of coolness, for all 
the wide earth seems dry, — 
Dry in the pitiless beating of sun-rays for 
many a day? 
The sleeper beside the fountain that has no 
waters now, 
Sick of the scent of the poppies, sick of 
the sun's fierce glow, 
Dreams of great torrents roaring, and, grate- 
ful, makes a vow; 
There breathes a sound celestial across 
the lilies' row, 
From out the court of the Virgin; it turns 
the sleeper's sigh 



^Ixe ^nnnncmtion. 159 

Into a song of hoping, as the toiler goes 
his way. 

A serpent among the tall lilies raises his jew- 
eled head 
Spotted with scarlet color, ruby-like in 
the sun. 
"Air, or I die in this stillness! *' the Tetrarch 
cries in his tent; 
"How silent the light is growing!*' the 
poet languidly sings; 
And in the court of the Virgin a maiden's 
form is bent, 
Safe from the glare of the sunlight in the 
splendor of seraphs' wings 
That bear the Word of the Godhead; and the 
Mystic Twain are wed. 
As the voice of the Virgin murmurs: 
"The will of our God be done! " 



160 mUzx "^ocms. 

So soft, — and yet Nature wakens and the 
Hours from sleep arise; 
So sweet, — yet the serpent quivers and 
dies in the scarlet sheen 
Made by the flame-like lilies, no longer proud 
to the sun, 
But sinking in shriveled death, — and a 
white cloud gently veils 
The heat and the hate of Apollo, and the 
fountains once more run; 
All Nature, the Mystic Mother with the 
gladness of new-birth hails; — 
There stands the spotless lily where the crown 
of the red one lies, — 
Love has struck the symbols of Lilith, 
and Venus is no more queen! 



^feje MtxluQ jof tixe ^osarxj* I6i 



TUB STRING OF THE ROSARY. 




RBUTUS came from out the moist 
earth peeping, 
And then a violet and a Bethlehem star; 
And when a daisy smiled which had been 
sleeping 
Down in the pines, where sheltered cor- 
ners are, 
The fields were hidden in a soft green cover 
And our whole world was Lady April's loven 

The lilacs burst and filled the air with incense 

Then roses crowded in the way of June^, 
Beauties well guarded by their thorns and 
leaves dense, 



162 ©ttxer "^ozms. ' 



Ruddy in daylight, pale ' neath harvest 
moon; 
From pure white to deepest crimson ranging, 
In loveliness from bud to blossom changing. 

Then maples in the autumn! And the aster 

I saw last year its petals ruby red, 
Gold-hearted, aromatic; fast and faster 

The year sped onward to the years that 
fled; 
But gorgeous were the banners borne before 

him; 
And clouds took purple vestments to adore 
him. 

The last sad days were not so sad in passing, ' 
The barns were full, and hiding here and 

there, 
A late flower bloomed; and to the eastward 

massing 



^Uz MxiUQ of tUz 'g.O^diXVf. 163 

Against the wind, the cedar hedges were 
Green all the year, and greener in the winter; 
Them ocean gales could neither bend nor 
splinter. 

These have their meaning; every month and 
season 
Speaks to the Christian heart a tale of love; 
We, knowing this, in each may find a reason 
For tender thoughts for the dear Lord 
above; 
Red roses say, *^ The Sacred Heart remember! " 
*' Eternal life! " cry hedges in December. 

Poor is the man who sees but earthly flowers, 
Hears only earthly voices in the trees, 

And finds no symbols in the star-lit hours. 
Though his great wealth be blazoned over 
seas; 



164 mUzx "^ozms. 

Poor! if he in the cloud sees only vapor 
And in the sun a larger useful taper. 

Fair silver lines the cloud of sternest duty, 

There is a glow on all our week-day deeds; 
Through all the year there runs a string of 
beauty 
Like the bright chain that holds the 
rosary beads. 
Life is not hard seen through the Resurrection; 
Nature, read rightly, helps us to perfection. 



glXC ^nxiOXX5 "^OViZV. 165 







m. 



THE ANXIOUS LOVER, 

(j. K. E.) 

SAW a damsel in a sombre room, 
Laid low in beds of purple violet, 
And pale, sweet roses scenting all the gloom; 
And then I thought, This is a gray sunset 
Of days of loving life. Shall he who stands 

Beside her bier, in sorrow for his love, 
Be first in Heaven to clasp her gentle hands 
To bow with her before the Lord above? 

If love can die, let my heart be as cold 
As Galatea's was before the words 

Of the warm sculptor drew it from the mould 
And made her hear the sound of singing 
birds; 



166 mUzx "^ozms. 



Love's sunshine and love's shadows are they all 
Like April sun and shadow on the earth ? 

If love can die at sight of funeral-pall, 

Would I had strangled it in its sad birth! 

I know that the sweet spring will surely go 

And leave no trace, except a blossom dry; 
I know that life will pass as passes snow 

When March winds blow and river-floods 
are high; 
I know that all the maples on the hill 

That fire the air with flame to ashes burn; 
I know that all the singing birds that fill 

The air with song to silent dust will turn. 

Oh! love, my love, can it, then, ever be 

That thou or I may gaze upon love's death ? 

That thou shalt some day sad and silently 

Look on me dumb and cold and without 
breath ? 



^Ixe ^n^ious %ox^zv. 167 



Or shall I see thee lying white and wan, 
Like yonder damsel in the flower-bed, 

And only say, " My lady sweet has gone; 

She's lost to me; she's dead — what meaneth 
'dead'?'' 

If love can die, then I will no more look 

Into thy eyes, and see thy pure thoughts 
there, 
Nor will I read in any poet^s book 

Of all the things that poets make so fair. 
If love can die, the poet's art is vain. 

And thy blue eyes might well be blossoms 
blue. 
And th}^ soft tears be only senseless rain, 

If love can die, like flowers and soulless 
dew. 

I care not for thy smile, if love can die: 

If I must leave thee, let me leave thee now. 



168 (BUxcx "^ozms. 



Shall I not know thee, if in Heaven high 

I enter and before the Holy bow ? 
Shalt thou not know me when before the throne 
Thou, white-robed one, shalt enter into 
light? 
I cannot think the Lord of Love has sown 
His precious seed to make but one day 
bright. 

Would I were dead, if death could be the end 

Of all the loving that makes life so fair! 
If love can die, I pray the sun may send 

An arrow through my head, that death 
may tear 
Away my soul, and make me soon forget 

The fair, sweet hope of love's eternal day, 
Which yet might die like purple violet 

Strewn on the robe of her that passed 
away! 



^Txe ^n^i0U5 %ovizx. 169 

Ah! love, my love, when I look in thy eyes, 

And hear thy voice, like softened homely 
bells. 

Coming to one who long has sent up sighs 

From foreign lands to be where his love 

dwells, 

^' The earth may crumble, but our love and we 

Shall live forever. This is true! " I cry. 

My heart lifts up itself in ecstasy. 

'* Life were not life if our great love could 

die." _ 



170 miicx ^0jcms, 



1 



BETWEEN THE LIGHTS, 

A PHANTASY. 

(to JOHN J. STAFFORD.) 

N the cool, soft, fragrant summer grass, 



In trembling stalks of white-tipped 
clover, 
I lie and dream, as the shadows pass 

From twilight's gates the cloud-bridge 
over. 

On the other side, dim other side. 

Lie starlight gloom, and the night's chill 
wind. 
Calm Eve comes forth, like a timid bride, 

And with shaded eyes looks on mankind; — 
She looks at me, as I lounge and dream; 



^ztxmzn tixe gtglxte. 171 

She builds in the sky for my delight 
High-towered castles that glow and gleam 
Redder than snow-crests in North fires 
bright. 

She shows me Ceres in corn-flowers blue, 

And Pluto's bride on her throne below, 
And Helen fair, to her lord untrue, 

Anguished and wailing in deathless woe; 
Gold arabesques on a jasper ground, 

Gray cameo-faces, cold and grand. 
Puck and Peas-blossom hovering round 

Oberon and his glittering band. 

She changes her aspect, opal Eve! — 

Shows me a plain near the walls of Troy, 

Where shepherds' sheep in low shrubs leave 
In haste, to gaze on a bright-haired boy — 

The boy is Paris, he cometh out, 



172 ®Uxcx "^ojcms. 



Out of the city, strong-limbed and fair. 
Live I in future or past ? I doubt 

Am I Greek shepherd or gay trouvere — 

Who lieth, dreaming perhaps of her, 

CEnone weeping for him, forlorn ? — 
Who strives with the plaintive lute to stir 

Some love in a Norman heart of scorn ? 
Out of a balcon of hues that glow 

There leans a lady against the sky; 
Her robe is bordered with pearls, I know, — 

Pearls on her neck with her pearl-skin vie. 

There stands a lover in gay slashed hose, 

Withabright plumed hat and purple cloak, 

He calls her " lily " and ** damask rose"; 

Even in cloudland they wear love's yoke. 

Bold knights ride forward on prancing steeds. 
King Arthur's court, with Sir Launcelot — 



^ztmzzn tfte gtgMs. 173 

Presto! ' Tis Syrinx among the reeds, 
Apollo seeks her, but finds her not. 

I am so idle in summer grass, 

I cannot think for scent of clover; 

No moral I find in clouds that pass, 
I only know that sunset's over. 



174 ®Uxzx ^ozms. 



TO A POET IN EXILE, 
(j. P. c.) 




CANNOT sing!" the grieving heart- 
harp sighed; 
" The breeze that touched me lives beyond 
the foam." 
A rough wind struck it, and its voice replied 
In sweeter music than it made at home. 

O Sorrow, Sister Sorrow, thou dost give 
A richer tone to poets when they cross, 

To seek Eurydice, from where joys live, 

And make them godlike through thy gift 
of loss. 



Thz (^onntxxi ^^x^izsrs Witzh. 175 



TIf£ COUNTRY PRIEST'S WEEKf" 




(SUNDAY.) 

IRST Mass is over, and the farmers go 
Along the roads, where budding 
bushes grow, 
A sense of peace upon them, — ^^ Winter wheat 
Is fair to middling;'' — as they meet and greet, 
Their scraps of talk are not so full of gloom 
As on the other days; — the wind-flowers bloom 
In the sparse clearings, where the oaks are thin, 
Among the puff-balls and the acorns; — in 
A sheltered place arbutus shows its crest 
Near where a meadow lark begins her nest. 



♦Suggested by Annette von Droste-Hulshofs *' Des Alten 
Pfarrer's Woche." 



176 ©tlxje^ "^atms. 

There is a stillness in the sunny air, 
There is a quietness, — a softness rare — 
The quality of Sunday — rest for all, 
Except the priest, who answers to a call 
From one in illness; last night till the moon 
Late silvered the young wheat as light as noon 
He heard confessions; betimes again to hear 
The contrite tales he rose this morn; from near 
And far the farmers gather; — fasting still 
He greets them kindly, as he mounts the hill; — 

He sees some neighbors as they churchward 

pass, 
Who take his horse; and then he vests for Mass; 
What time the farmers in their Sunday coats, 
Talk of the weather, and count up the votes 
For and against the party of their loves; 
Their wives, — a little solemn in tight gloves, — 
Exchange receipts and wonder if the beef 



^Ixje (Comxixxj ^rxest^s WizzU. 177 

Will burn at home, and tell of joys or grief, 
A recent death, or that a batch of bread 
Came from the stove as light as thistle-head. 

The Mass begins; the sad melodeon wails; 
The Kyrie is sung; uncertain gales 
Bear up the Gloria; — why will she who takes 
The treble part raise high her painful " shakes/' 
While alto, organ, and the bass profound, 
Each independent, makes discordant sound ? 
Veni Creator! Then the triumph comes! 
The practice of a month that grand burst sums; 
The basso roars, the treble, soaring, flies. 
The alto trembles, sings alone, and dies. 

On bended knees the old priest waits until 
The warblers in the loft have worked their will; 
"Veni Creator!" cry the four at once, 
And then the basso (sure the man's a dunce!) 



178 mUzv ^ozms. 

Repeats it and repeats it; then in turn 
The treble and the alto show they burn 
To rival his outpouring, till the priest 
Is faint with weary waiting; and the feast 
Of music falls in fragments in the air, 
And somehow there is gladness everywhere. 

A sermon on the duty of the tim.e, — 
The Easter time, — some Scriptural words sub- 
lime 
Of love and hope, — a wish about the pews 
Whose rent is rather backward, —certain views 
About a dance announced for Tuesday night, 
In which plain speaking points the course of 

right; 
The young folks look ashamed, the elders nod; 
^^ True to your Faith and you'll be true to God, 
Which grace I wish you all/' A little while, 
And all the place is radiant; angels smile. 



^Ixe ®0wntraj l^xjest^s WizzU. 179 

Our Lord descends; the church is glorified; 
The roughest face in some new flame is dyed; 
The lights before the altar leap with joy. 
The candles glow, — and that stout, red-cheeked 

boy 
Who holds the censer (to-morrow he will 

plough) 
Is rapt, seraphic, for a moment now; 
The gray-haired priest is mightier than kings; 
And this poor chapel, lacking many things, 
Is grander than a palace: let them sing! 
(Discords forgotten) — words of seraphs ring! 

The Mass is done, — " Father, the banns next 

week, — 
Don't call them loud! " And then the widow 

meek, 
Approaching, stills the laugh; she comes to 

seek 



180 ®mzx ^0jems* 

Another word of hope; her sad eyes speak 
Of tears unshed, — ^'Father, a Mass?" she asks; 
Then come some farmers, full of daily tasks, — 
^^ Shall the new schoolhouse be of brick or 

stone ? 
Who will haul wood on Thursday ? Is it known 
Whether the railway passes Riley's field ? — 
But up the women glide — then the men yield. 

A hasty dinner and a sorry one — 
(**The roast, you ought to know, is overdone. 
And who can keep potatoes on the fire 
Without their growing soggy ? Thus the ire 
Of her who guards the threshold of the priest 
Takes form in words, — ^^ You might have come, 

at least 
Before the pudding burned; they chatter so! — 
These country louts; they'd stop it if you'd go 



^Ixe ®0untrtj ^KizsVs WLzzk. 181 

And let them bite their tongues; — the gravy's 

cold")— 
He eats and says no word; — the plaint is old. 

And this grim lady (you have met her, sir? — 
This guardian spirit? — here's success to her!) 
Creeps to the door because a ring is heard; 
'' His Riv'rence is eatin', — can't you leave word? 
No; you can't see him! Come to-night, I say. — 
You can't? — well, try to come another day." 
The door is slammed before the pastor can 
Arise and stop the too persistent man 
Who, when the supper waits ^Svill come 

again,"— 
The guardian knows the wicked ways of men! 

The Sunday-school — some words the priest 
must say 



182 ODtftjer "^ozms. 

To little children; and they must be gay, 
Yet with instruction fraught, — a picture here, 
A medal there, a smile for eyes that peer 
From golden curls, a joke for that small boy, 
A warning word for this: here, smiling coy. 
The maidens come, — the altar needs repair. 
And they will do it; then, with taste and care 
He steers his way between the factions who 
Hate all the good that other factions do. 

Vespers and Benediction! — and the day 
Of faith and love and all the various play 
Of life in many tints, draws to its end. 
The people in the sunset homeward wend. 
And, in an hour, stern Martha lights the lamp— 
(^^ You've caught a cold, sir, standing in the 

damp")— 
The pastor takes his chair. (" Old Clarke is 

here 



^Ixe ^onntxvf "^xxzbVs WizzU. 183 

About the money, — supper's spoiled, — that's 

clear! 
And Mary Devlin wants, — Pat's at the door, — 
I'll leave this house! — warning I give once 

more!") 

The crowded day is gone; the lights are out, 
The pastor rests at last; beyond a doubt 
Pat Smith will come no more this night, at 

least! 
And balmy sleep steals o'er the weary priest. 
The day is done, well filled with duties, too. 
And kindly thoughts and acts and sayings true. 
He dreams a golden dream of heavenly rest; — 
[Ah, broken dream! from out the lowering west 
A man rides hastily, as the rain falls thick: 
Three miles away, for Patrick Smith is sick!] 



184 mUzx ^0jems. 



II. 

(MONDAY.) 




HE early Mass is said, the sunlight 

glows 

With tinge of red; the pastor homeward goes, 
To pause a moment, just to say a word 
To that old woman, whose sharp tongue, — he's 

heard, — 
Has made much havoc all the previous week, — 
^' You ask forgiveness, yet you evil speak,'* 
He says, with sternness; ^'at each morn you 

rise, 
In spite of wind and weather, — turn your eyes 
In fervent ecstasy; you beat your breast, 
And have not love; — of what avail's the rest?" 



Thz (Conntxv( WxusVs Wizzli. 185 



x> c^ 



Abashed, the ancient dame, in shav/1 of black 
And veiled bonnet, sighs at this attack, 
And hastens off, with bobbing courtesy short, 
To face the parish with an altered port; 
And he goes onward through the tender green, 
Following a furrow in the changing sheen 
Of winter wheat ; the rain has passed away, 
The new world glitters in a radiant day, 
*^ Which God has given us! '* he, reverent, says. 
*^ How glad and glorious, O my God, thy 
ways!" 

'Tis Monday, and his sermon's in the past, 
And in the future, — freedom can but last 
A day at most; no name is on the slate, — 
There's an account, but those small bills can 

wait; 
He scans the slate again; no letters mark 
Its ebon surface; — there is Susan Clarke; — 



186 ©tlxer ^0em5. 

He ought to see her, she's been ill, they say; 

* Tis but a mile ; he'll take it on his way 

To **Jack Maginn's," — forgive the "Jack" you 

can, 
A priest's a priest, and yet a priest's a man. 

For " Jack Maginn," now " Father," if you 

please, 
Lives just four miles away, where willow trees 
Bend o'er a garden, bound by mignonette. 
And with a duck pond in an arbor set: 
Here rose and cabbage in the summer time 
Elbow each other; in another clime 
Parochus learned to garden, by the sea 
(There's shamrock under glass, kept carefully!) 
In far-off Ireland, — (of his heart the pulse!) — 
The only thing he can't grow here is du/se. 

There was a time when '^ Jack " was young 
and gay, — 



glxe (Conntx^3 ^xizsVs "mzzk. 187 

A player on the cornet^ so they say; 

He plays no more, at which his friends 

rejoice, — 
A seminarian with a tenor voice, 
Who sang " The Minstrel Boy " and '' Tara's 

Harp'*; 
But now his voice is just a trifle sharp 
In the upper notes; one wouldn't care for 

that, 
If in the lower it were not so flat. 
A man, like grave St. Paul, he holds no thing 
Of boyish days, — except that he will sing. 

The *^ Jack Maginn " of '60 is no more: 

The cares of office, and the burdens sore 

Of ail the burdens of his little flock 

Have changed him greatly, — yet there is a lock 

That holds a secret portal, and the key 

Is kept by him whc journeys cheerily 



188 ©tlxer "^ozms. 

Across the fields; behind this portal, bright 
Are memories, and jokes, that saw the light 
When Russell ruled at Maynooth, — of the 

young 
And gifted cantors he had oft outsung! 

The horse is stabled, and the old friends meet. 
' Tis Monday, — you would know it as they 

greet; 
"The ducks are in the stove, you'll stay and 

dine," 
"Who talks of dining; it is not yet nine/' 
The arm-chair's out, the grate is made to glow, 
And wreathes of fragrant smoke soft upward 

blow; 
Now joke meets joke: — away, dull care, away! 
For this is Monday, and a little play 
Is good for men that think; the Office said 
As far as possible; no work ahead. 



gfte ^ountxvi "^xu^Vs WizzU. 189 

Cigars and pews, the Bishop's health, — who 

spoke 
At certain funerals, — (all of this in smoke,) — 
The sermon of last Easter, — Hogan's boy, 
(" Gone to the bad,") and Jimmy Quinlan's joy 
Over the rise in hay, — of course, the school; 
And both agree that editor's a fool 
Who in his leader took the other side 
In Irish politics, — the man that lied 
In last week's Tribime on old Froude's new 

book; — 
And, for the season, how well all things look; 

" Delaney and his tricks!" he died at sea, 
Of yellow fever, caught in steerage, — he 
Spent all the voyage among the sickened crowd 
In the foul steerage; he was never cowed. 
^'Ordained a month!" And may he rest in 
peace! 



190 m^zx "gozms. 

A knock is heard; and now the talk must 

cease; 
The ducks are ready, and a cook will wait 
No more than time or tide, if men be late. 
^^The ducks are roasted." What! — already 

noon! 
For once, at least, the diners dine too soon. 

Nor is the day without its argument, 
A wordy war, — the smoky air is rent 
With J^ros and co72s upon the Moral Law, — 
" Pere Gury says " — " In printing there's a 

flaw;" 
" Yes!" " No! " ^^ De Lugo! " " St. Alphonsus! " 

" Good, 
Yet there's a gloss." — '^ No casuist ever 

could—" 
''What nonsense!" "On the Index T "In 

Le Fape 



^Uz ^onntxvi ^kxzbVb W&izzU. 191 

De Maistre says — " *^Come, come, I'll take 

my nap, 
If you mix history and ^ Moral ' so! " 
And then our pastor thinks it's time to go. 

But not till twilight where the wheat is sowed 
Turns green to gray does he take to the road, 
Refreshed and strengthened for the coming 

week, 
When life and death shall meet, and he shall 

speak 
Most august words; now at his horse's head, 
He quick remembers what he might have said. 
" De Lugo settled f/iaf/ " These words he hears 
Hurled from the darkness, as thegatehenears; 
He pauses, tempted; then into the gloom 
Rides, laughing at the tempest in the room. 



192 ©tlxeic 1^0em5< 



III. 

(the rest of the week.) 




HE swift week passes, each recurrent 
day 

Brings a new duty, — lights and shadows play 
Across the pastor's path; no rest he knows; 
He feels the touch of joys, the weight of woes;— 
On Tuesday, Burke the carpenter lies low, 
The scaffold broke, a sudden fall, a blow; 
From life to death the robust man is struck. 
Happily for him there's neither fate nor luck; 
He bows his head unto the chastening rod, 
And, as a Christian, longs to meet his God. 

Across the fields the anxious pastor speeds, 
Bearing our God, to fill the poor soul's needs, — 



^fte &omxtxvf "^xizsVs Wizzf%. 193 

And when the rites are over, and have ceased 
The aspirations, and the soul's released, 
The family turn in hope unto their friend; 
^' He's safe," the pastor says, ^^ death does not 

end 
Your life or his, — pray, pray, I pray you,/ra_y. 
And you shall meet him in the Light of Day! " 
The candles fall upon the pallid face, 
The family kneel; about them, peace and grace; 

The soft tears flow, — ah, not in wild despair!— 
There's golden hope; and why? ^'The priest 

was there'' 
He only of all men can do this thing, — 
Tear from the mouth of death its poisoned 

sting! 
Gentle he was, — but see him as he walks 
Quick by the side of yonder man who talks 
In maudlin nonsense, — angry is the word 



194 ©tfejer |^0jem5. 

He hurls upon the drunkard; who unheard 
Excuse scarce murmurs, coived, if not con- 
trite; — 
Our pastor can be wrathful in the right! 

On Wednesday there's a wedding,— nuptial 

Mass, 
And then a warning word for lad and lass 
The pastor speaks; a red-hued barn is cleared 
For the great feast, a pine that late upreared 
Its green boughs to gray skies is stripped and 

bare 
To decorate a bower for the pair 
Above the board, whose oaky firmness groans 
Beneath the beef and fowl, — soon to be bones. 
When hearty appetites shall circle round. 
And cider sparkle, and tongues be unbound. 

The farmers gather with their gifts and jokes. 
And from the village come a crowd of folks, 



STie (£omxtxvi "^xizsrs Wicz\%. 195 

Friends of the groom, (who keeps the village 

store, 
And stands uneasy, one foot on the floor, 
Bashful, yet bold ) — a strong hand lifts the 

latch, 
The priest has come, — ' tis said he made the 

match, 
"And many others" add the chatting groups, 
*' All good ones, too." How coy the fair bride 

droopsl 
Who'd think she'd helped with careful hands 

to make 
That center of her thoughts, the bridal cake ? 

The pastor reads these homely thoughts and 

lives, 
And into homely topics gaily dives. 
" The bride looks well, — a little girl at school, — 



196 mhzx "gozms. 



Baptized her, sir. But, come, the feast grows 

cool!" 
And there's a rush, subdued a trifle, too. 
When 'tis remembered that a ^' grace" is due; 
He blesses the repast, — that farmer who 
Sat down too soon, now rises, almost blue 
With sudden flush; a laugh begins the chat; 
A pleasant hour; the pastor takes his hat: 

Full well he knows the meaning of the floor 
Smoothed well and swept, and that behind 

the door 
The fiddles wait; and young folks, too, the 

chance 
Of cutting capers in a country dance; 
How they protest! He must not go so soon, — 
He'll wait till dark, — 'tis easy — there's a moon 
This time o' month, — the family all swear 



STxe ^omxtxvi ^xusVs W^zz^. 197 

They'll keep him by main force; but he must 

tear 
Himself away; he's not by this deceived, 
He fancies that the young folks look relieved. 

On Thursday there's the funeral, — sad and 

slow 
The neighbors drive their buggies, and talk 

low 
Of Wednesday's wedding, and the widow's way 
Of getting on; the pastor bids them pray 
For death in grace; ^'good deeds, not cease- 
less plans 
For money-getting, leave the pots and pans 
And constant worry over kitchen stuff, 
And pray each day; O friends, 'tis well enough 
To live by bread, but not by bread alone, 
Up, souls and hearts!" he cries, in pastoral 
tone. 



' • 



198 mhcx Tozms. 



New resolutions move the serious crowd, 
Our Lord descends, and every head is bowed; 
God help the widow! — kind thoughts turn to 

her, 
Born of his w^ords, for well our priest can stir 
The simple chords in honest hearts like these, 
As well as quote St. Thomas. Through the trees 
To the near graveyard goes the m^ourning 

train. 
And prayers are fervent, though the soft 

spring rain 
Falls on the clay that waits the sacred dead 
And touches with its brilliants each low head. 

On Friday childhood claims him, for he must 
Go to the school, — such visits rub the dust 
Of daily struggles from him, — now he smiles 
And tells fine stories; many childish wiles 
Are used to keep him there, the children know 



^:hc (f^onntxvi WxUsVs WizcU. 199 



'X) c^ 



That while he stays the hours will not go slow: 
And when he's grave, the children love him 

still, 
For, if he scolds, some pocket will he fill 
With last year's walnuts, which will soothe 

the heart 
That in the ^^First Commandment" got a smart. 

And here comes Tom Malone, — his student 

boy, 
To read a page of Virgil, and with joy 
To hear the news that he may go in Fall 
To some great college, — this will be a call 
Upon the pastor's purse, but only one 
Of many such. No wonder that the sun 
Shows vvhite on his best cassock, that the books 
He loves are bought infrequent, that he looks 
A little rust}^ in his Sunday dress, 
When claim.s, like Tom's, on his resources press. 



200 mhcx "^ozms. 



But God is good! — and Tom is grateful, too; 
He'll stay all night and many a chore he'll do. 
On Saturday, the sermon looms aloft, 
A cloud upon the day, — alas! how oft 
The pastor wishes it in retrospect. 
At last 'tis done; (next week he will select 
From out a certain drawer his Easter one. 
Quite new, beloved brethren, for 'twas done 
In eighty-two; 'twill fill the reverent fold 
With holy awe; 'tis new because 'tis old!) 

The church is chill; confessions must be heard. 
The hour comes, it cannot be deferred; 
He sits in patience, as the sun recedes, 
Absolves the sinner,' and the beggar feeds 
With words that he alone, of all his kind, 
Can use to cleanse the heart and soothe the 

mind. 
And force repentant sinners to atone 



^\xc (Somxivvf "^icizsVs WiczU. 201 

With power that rests on no mere earthly- 
throne; 

At night he waits, to hear the good-willed 
men; — 

His week has ended, — to begin again. 

And thus from year to year his good deeds flow, 
A crystal river, blessing as they go. 
How many flowers spring up, like violets 
In hidden clumps, — how many wild regrets 
Are made content,— how many a sinful heart 
Grows white again, — and so he does his part 
In the great tragedy of human life. 
A simple priest; and all his days are rife 
With simple deeds; yet when the trump shall 

ring. 
None more rewarded in Christ's choir shall 

sing. 



